


this ain't our world, we're just living in it (and other lies we tell ourselves)

by dabblingwithwords



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: 'cause idk what's going to happen, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Angst, Bad Puns, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bisexual Peter Parker, Dirty Talk, Distressing Material, Dubious Ethics, EVERYONE LOVES MILES, Father Figure Peter, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied abuse, Implied experimentation, Kissing, Language, M/M, Markings, Miles Morales is too precious for this world, Mutants, On the Run, PTSD, Pansexual Wade Wilson, Politics, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Wade Wilson, Resolved Sexual Tension, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Romance, Scarred Wade, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Survival, Terrible Governments, Violence, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, War, World War II references, Zodiac Talk, and i'll add them as i go, dark themes, dealing with abuse, everyone needs a hug really, horrible flirting, kinda like a gay mad max, motel sex, references, tags will be updated as I go, there's gonna be a lot more characters, they're just trying to find a place to call home, venom loves chocolate and ice cream, which is hard to find at the end of the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabblingwithwords/pseuds/dabblingwithwords
Summary: wade and miles want hot chocolate. peter's just trying to survive.+roadtrip au where our babies are trying to find a safe space to call home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> little things to help you understand this world:
> 
> MDF: Mutant Detainment Force  
> Auction Points: Landmarks to turn in mutants  
> Internment Camps: Different camps where mutants are sorted based on their abilities

The first flash of light was a warning. 

The second was a resolution. 

The third was absolution.

+

It rained ash for two days.

The air was toxic for seventy-five. 

And then the vans came. 

And Peter tried to remember what it had been like before.

+

The man reminds Wade of a rat.

Sniveling, disheveled, with absolutely no integrity left. A few broken bones and split skin and the guy has snot running down his nose and tangling in his unkempt mustache. Even his eyes are beady and small, the shards of his broken glasses sticking like stubborn splinters in his face. 

“Listen, I ain’t one to repeat myself, or ask nicely, or ask multiple times, so this is your last, and only chance, to be fucking useful,” Wade growls, gloved hands wrapped like a vice around the rat’s neck, “where. The fuck. Can I get a decent _fucking cup of hot chocolate_?” 

The man’s crying peters off into gasping confusion, and Wade shakes him, jarring his unfocused eyes to his. His fingers are itching for his gun; he wants it so bad he’s tingling from head to toe. 

“C’mon, man,” Wade sighs, pinning the guy to the bed of his pickup with one hand while the other disappears to get a cigarette from one of his belt pockets, “you’re really gonna make me repeat myself?” 

“H–Hot chocolate?” the man stutters, saliva mixing with his blood and staining Wade’s gloves. 

Great. 

Now he’s gonna have to find a dry cleaner in bum-fuck nowhere. Wade places the cig between his teeth, chewing as he levels the man with a putrid look. 

“Got a light?” he asks. 

The rat, seeming to finally break out of his semi-unconscious phase, reaches into his back pocket with trembling hands to light Wade’s cigarette. The first inhale is fuckin’ heaven, hot with just a bit of mint, and Wade can already feel his headache dissipating. 

He smokes it down to a stub and puts it out on the guy’s left eye. His screams come out garbled and winded, probably because Wade’s bruised his windpipe. He’s had to repeat himself twice tonight; the rat is lucky to still be alive. 

“Hot chocolate,” Wade _repeats_ , “last chance, Peter Pettigrew.” 

The guy scrambles, obviously terrified and Wade’s pretty sure he’s pissed his pants, if the putrid smell of urine is any indication. Pettigrew should eat better. 

“Off–off the highway. Exit 6, and then follow the road for a few hours. There’s…there’s a diner, open 24/7,” the man garbles out. 

His hands scratch uselessly at Wade’s wrist, nails blunt, and Wade lets him, watches him, thinking about how fucking easy it would be to snap this rat’s neck– 

He lets him go and steps back. The guy stumbles, falling to the dirt road in a messy heap. 

“All right, thanks man,” Wade says jovially, patting the guy’s trembling shoulder, “really helped me out here.” 

The man stammers, shocked. 

“Uh…you…”

Wade blows the guy’s brains out all over his confederate flag bumper sticker. He hates repeating himself, but he hates white supremacists more.

+

Peter crouches by the side of a dumpster, his calves beginning to burn from how he’s had to hold the position for almost twenty minutes now.

The searchlights flood the alley again but Peter’s placed himself strategically along the trash, the light barely blessing his toes before its scanning white up the brick wall and up and away with the whirls of the helicopters. 

If he strains his hearing he can hear the radios and coms from MDF on the sidewalk. There’s a horrible siren, screeching high and waning low, that’s been fucking with his senses ever since he’d left the facility in Midtown. Even in Brooklyn, the sirens are haunting. Demanding. He’s had to duck and freeze under so many nosy neighbors sticking their heads outside to try and spot the rouge mutants. 

No civilians are in the streets however, only the MDF and their armed cars. 

The small body tucked against his chest grounds him, barely. It definitely motivates him to act with caution, to hold his current crouching pose as long as he has. If it weren’t for their easily recognizable jumpsuits, the symbol for “mutant” stitched onto the arm, then Peter wouldn’t worry about being seen. 

He’d take the child in his arms and he’d rush them through the curves and streets of one of the last standing Boroughs. They need to hot-wire a car. They need new clothes. They need to _get out_. 

“Hey,” he whispers, trying to keep his tone soothing and not belay the hysteria of hopelessness he feels, “Miles, you think you can turn invisible for me?” 

The nine-year boy blinks up at him, head lesion making his reactions sluggish. Peter hates that he couldn’t have prevented that. 

“I–I dunno,” Miles replies, eyes wide and fearfully expressive, “I can’t control it yet.” 

Frustration blooms hot in Peter’s chest, not at Miles, but at their situation. He was hoping Miles could access his abilities, but that was a long shot hope. The kid had been under The X Foundation since he was three, there’s no way anyone’s taught him how to harness his powers. Peter nods, trying to soften his features so Miles doesn’t take his lack of response as Peter being upset with him. 

“Okay, that’s okay,” Peter soothes, pressing closer when another chopper dives overhead. 

Fuck. _Fuck_. 

He didn’t plan to get this far. Hell, he didn’t plan at all. The generator had gone out unexpectedly and Peter hadn’t hesitated. He wishes he could’ve saved more children besides Miles. He wishes he could teleport, or grow extra limbs, or stretch or something that would have allowed him to carry more than one body. In the grand scheme of things he’s lucky he was able to escape at all, let alone with Miles on his back. 

“I’m going to sneak into that apartment,” Peter tells him, pointing up at the dark window two stories up, “get us a change of clothes. And then we’re gonna book it, okay?” 

Panic floods Miles’ features, and his hands reach out to grip Peter tightly. There’s a shocking jolt, not too powerful but enough that it feels like a static shock. Peter looks down at Miles’ hands just in time to see the blue currents vaporize. 

“Can’t control that either, huh?” Peter asks, thankful for his enhanced healing or else the slight reddening of his skin under the now charred jumpsuit might’ve been a third degree burn.

“I’m sorry,” Miles fumbles, “I–can I come with you?”

Peter weighs the pros and cons and all of them fall under the category of him not willing to leave Miles, who is small, who doesn’t know how to control his abilities, alone in a dark alley with choppers and police patrolling the streets. 

Peter focuses as hard as he can at the apartments above. He can hear someone moving around in a kitchen, someone in the shower, someone on the phone, but he can’t detect any movement from the dark window above them. Getting out of the alley and inside should be safer. They could wait out until the cop’s tire. 

But–

It’s past curfew. The sirens are still blaring.

_Why_ is no one home? There should be people home. 

His spider sense has been tingling on low this whole time, and it doesn’t get any stronger as he turns his attention to the apartment, but his paranoia is enough to give him pause. 

“Stay here,” Peter says and Miles is already shaking his head, frantic, “stay here, I’ll be back so quickly you won’t even realize I’m gone.” 

The kid looks like he wants to argue but Peter tucks him further back against the dumpster, arranging the trash with an apologetic look. 

“Five minutes,” Peter urges, focusing his senses on the street around them, “give me five minutes. I’m not leaving you, bud.” 

Miles nods, reluctant, but bumps his fist against Peter’s when the older holds it out. Peter hopes his smile is reassuring. He can’t hear any more radio comms on the street, and the chopper’s are far enough away that a searchlight hasn’t fallen on them for a few minutes. 

It feels like now or never. 

Without overthinking it Peter shoots a web and propels himself right up to the dark window. His spider sense has upped the anti, and he looks at the apartment windows behind him. There’s a woman in her kitchen, but her back is to him, so Peter sticks his fingers to the window of the dark apartment and tries to pry it open as quietly as he can. 

It’s locked, and it feels like the person who lives here welded it shut, but Peter can lift a bus with no problem, breaking this window is nothing. 

It’s not the most soundless break in he’s ever done but the woman has moved from the kitchen into her living room so Peter’s good. He slips in, landing on his toes and keeping his back flush to the wall. There’s no one in the apartment. He can tell that much. There’s nothing really in the apartment at all, now that Peter’s eyes have adjusted, and the swinging lights from outside wash the living space in a white flash. 

There’s no furniture. No decorations, no tables, no lamps, nothing that would hint at someone living here. There’s old take out containers, bullet holes in the walls, and Peter gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

What if the person who had lived here was a mutant? Were they killed here? Taken? Sent off for testing? 

Peter swallows down his building nausea and unsticks himself from the wall. There’s no reason to hide now. There’s no one here. The realization of that, of someone living here and then no longer is, makes Peter feel sleazy as he walks around the room. It’s tiny, a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom/living room. A thin closet is on the other wall and Peter makes his way over, still cautious but not as on edge the longer he’s there and the longer no one comes busting in. He’s able to find a dark hoodie, and even though it’s stained it’s better than the garish yellow jumpsuit he’s currently wearing. He changes, swift, into the hoodie and then into the only pair of jeans he can find. Whoever’s clothes these are they dwarf Peter’s frame, and Peter’s sure his malnourished state makes them look even larger. 

He grabs the last hoodie for Miles, and a pair of sweats. He rips the bottom hems, because the last thing he needs is Miles tripping while they flee for their lives. Peter’s not even going to think about what will happen to them if they’re caught. Miles will probably be moved to the re-training program, but Peter? An adult? Who the fuck knows? Death, maybe? Death, hopefully. 

He doesn’t go back out through the window. If he’s caught leaving that way it’ll be suspicious. He isn’t showing the brand on the back of his neck if pulls the hood up, and he leaves the apartment and is down to the first floor in a heart beat. He’s just about to open the front doors and leave when his spider sense zips like an electric shot down his spine. 

Peter spins, expecting an attack. He isn’t prepared for the old woman whose peering through a crack in her door out at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Peter’s hearts hammering in his chest, his nerves beyond frayed. 

“Where are you going?” the old woman asks. “It’s past curfew.” 

_Think, Parker, think. Don’t panic, think! What do old white ladies like? Besides racism and bridge_. 

“My mom’s cat got out,” Peter says, “I gotta try and get her before she gets too far.” 

He doesn’t wait for the woman to respond and dig into his lie further before he’s throwing open the front doors and rushing back out into the night. He didn’t realize how tense he had been until he relaxes upon seeing Miles, still tucked into the shadows of the alley. Peter hasn’t seen any vans in ten minutes, the searchlights now moving towards Queens. He dips down and hands Miles the clothes. 

“Put these on over the jumpsuit, you can change at the first gas station,” Peter whispers, urgent because they’re almost out, “plus we’re surrounded by trash.” 

“I stink,” Miles mutters but does as he’s told. 

Peter bends forward and checks the cut on Miles’ forehead. It’s not deep, and it’s stopped bleeding, but they’re definitely going to have to clean it. 

“All right big guy,” Peter says, taking Miles’ hands and pulling him to his feet, “turn invisible whenever you can. Stay by my side. Don’t talk to anyone. Ready?” 

Miles looks up at him, brown eyes earnest and determined. 

“Ready,” he says.

+

They run.

Peter maneuvers them through the shadows, avoiding cop cars and MDF vans. They make it to the chain link wall, the top adorned with barbed wire and electricity. Peter doesn’t hesitate to break through the links, even if the electricity makes him feel dizzy and incoherent. His healing factor and superhuman strength are definitely his favorite abilities right now. 

He scoops Miles up and runs into the overgrown forest. 

There used to be highways here. There used to be homes and other neighborhoods. There used to be more. 

But war will do that to a place. 

It’ll turn it dark and cold and desolate. The trees are bare, nothing is growing. It’s all mud and grime and ruins. Peter tries not to remember how things used to be when he was a child as he holds Miles and runs until his legs burn. 

He’s not going to stop running. 

Not anytime soon. 

The helicopters lose their noise in the air behind them. The sirens become a distant hum, a buzz, and then nothing. 

Peter keeps running. 

A wasteland is better than a prison.

+

When you lose your mind it’s soft.

Or, it starts soft. It starts like a whisper of a lover, a companion, a friend. It begins with a voice saying, “wouldn’t things be better this way?” It says, “wouldn’t _you_ be better this way?” And you listen, and you lose, and the voice becomes venomous and triumphant because you’ve given it a voice and it’s learning how to scream.

+

When you lose your identity it’s harsh.

It begins harsh and it ends cruel. 

There’s no easing into it. There’s no gentle voice, nothing to prepare you. It happens suddenly, inexplicably, like a vibration rattling your bones and making them tumble.

+

When you lose everything its liberation.

It’s the relief that you have nothing and no one to lose. It’s the weight leaving, the weight of the world, of responsibilities, of expectations. It’s the knowledge and the presence that you can be whatever it is you’ve been seeking, with no care for the outcome.

+

Peter nearly collapses after the first hour of nonstop running.

His legs give out after the second. He falls against the grass by a dirt road, Miles hovering worriedly over him. 

“You’re not dying, are you?” Miles asks, voice breaking. 

“No, I’m not dying,” Peter gasps out, the stars swirling in a dizzying blur above him. 

He feels sickly hot all over, his temples throbbing and his vision swimming. He’s pushed his body to its limit, and he’s trying to get a handle on it. 

They can’t stop moving. They _can’t_. 

But Peter’s so tired, and his limbs aren’t working properly. He feels panicked and frenzied, because he can’t protect Miles like this. 

“Just give me five. I’ll be good as new. Like a brand new shoe,” Peter slurs and he hopes his words are comforting and not crazed. 

He peels his eyes open and nearly throws up. Bad idea. He closes his eyes again. 

“Should I get help?” Miles asks, sounding desperate, “you look bad.” 

“Thanks, kid,” Peter groans, and fuck, maybe being electrocuted and running over twenty miles in two hours after zero cardio for ten years did actually affect him. 

“Are you going to throw up?” Miles continues. 

“I am if you keep talking about it,” Peter grumbles, his left hand spasming. 

“Your skin looks burnt,” Miles tells him. 

“Oh. That explains the horrible pain in my arms,” Peter croaks. 

They need water. And food. Peter really didn’t plan for this. He doesn’t know what the states have turned into. He hasn’t ever left New York. He has no idea where they are, but it’s quiet, and cool if not a little humid. 

“There’s someone coming,” Miles says, urgent. 

Peter strains his ears and yup, there’s a distant rumble and crunch of a car tearing through the dirt road. He can also pick up on someone blasting a radio, but the connection is horrible and mostly static. 

They need to hide. 

Peter rolls onto his side and has to take a moment because he’s most likely going to hurl if he tries to move too quickly. The car is speeding, the engine stuttering and growing closer by the minute. Miles grabs Peter by the arm and practically drags him to his feet like he weighs nothing. 

It’s pretty surreal for a nine year old who’s no taller than Peter’s hip to toss him around like he’s a rag doll. Miles isn’t gentle, either, and pain shoots up Peter’s arm and he has to bite back a third wave of intense nausea. 

“Whoa, easy, dude,” Peter gasps and Miles lets go of him instantly. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean–”

Headlights flash around the bend in the road and there’s really no place for them to hide. Peter’s spider sense is a warning, not intense like it usually is for immediate danger, so Peter pushes Miles behind him and tries to stand to his full height. He knows he can’t possibly look intimidating. He’s sure he’s pale, and thin, and his hands are a nasty burnt red, but he’s still a Type A mutant and he’ll protect Miles until he’s deep in the ground. 

The flash of protectiveness that shoots through him gives Peter enough willpower to stay standing and not collapse like his trembling legs want him to. He can feel Miles’ anxiety radiating in the space between them and he pushes Miles further behind him, hopefully shielding the kid with his body. 

A red Jeep barrels into view and it’s going so fast Peter has a fleeting hope that it’ll just shoot past them. Instead, it screeches to a halt three feet from where they’re standing, kicking up an obnoxious cloud of dirt and dust. The headlights are almost blinding, especially to Peter’s heightened eyesight, and it does nothing to soothe the pounding in his head. 

“Stay behind me,” Peter tells Miles, and whatever the kid’s response was is cut short when the driver sticks his head out the driver’s side window. 

He’s wearing attire similar to Peter’s, but his clothes actually fit. He’s wearing a suit that’s leather and Kevlar, a red mask covering his face. Because of the disguise Peter can’t tell if the man has a mutant brand like he does, or if he’s some sort of law enforcement. His uniform doesn’t look familiar, but he has enough weapons on him that Peter wouldn’t be surprised if he belongs to some type of military branch. 

The guy is staring at Peter with such intensity it makes his spider sense spike, and then the guy is exiting his car and moves to stand in front of the headlights instead, the yellow washing his broad silhouette against the stars. 

Peter tenses, bending his knees and preparing for a fight. Instead, the guy tilts his head and gestures to Peter’s clothing with a lazy flick of a large gun. 

“Why are you wearing my hoodie?” the guy asks, vocals fried and rough. “And my pants?” 

“Uh,” Peter says, looking down at himself, “how do you know these are yours?” 

“’Cause I made that,” the guy emphasizes his words by waving his gun at Peter’s hoodie, “stitched it myself. Like mama taught me.” 

Peter, for the first time that night, gets a clear look at what he’s wearing. The hoodie, too big on Peter but possibly the right size for the stranger in front of him, has a Hello Kitty image printed on the front. How had Peter not noticed that? 

Oh yeah, he was trying not to _die_. 

“You live in Brooklyn?” Peter asks. 

“Used to,” the guys says, tone harsh and flat, and Peter doesn’t blame him for being on edge when there’s a stranger in front of him wearing his clothes, “but I’ve been missing Kitty for weeks!” 

Peter doesn’t really know what to do. He’s hyperaware of Miles pressed against his back, and the danger this guy wears in the air around him like a shroud. He doesn’t want to start an altercation over a hoodie, and he doesn’t want this guy to turn them in. He has to keep this civil. Diffuse the tension before it can mount. 

“Do you want it back?” Peter asks, swallowing past another wave of sick, “I don’t need it. I didn’t know anyone was still living in the apartment. You can take it back, it doesn’t fit me anyway, and grey isn’t really my color–”

The guy scoffs, like Peter’s said something ridiculous and takes a few steps closer. He’s taller than Peter, and broader in every way. Peter isn’t sure he’d be able to take him in his weakened state. 

“You’re a mutant,” the guy doesn’t ask, he states.

Peter can feel his heart rate kick up a notch, the adrenaline pooling in his veins like a hot wax injection. He’s gonna have to fight. He’s gotta protect Miles. 

He’s not going back. 

He knows that there are mutants who avoided the camps by joining the MDF and capturing their own kind. Turning others in so they could save themselves. Is that what this man is? Is that how he has his own vehicle, his own authority? 

“Dude, buddy, reee- _lax_ , if I was mad I would’ve shot your pretty little head off already,” the guys says, gesticulating flamboyantly with the hand holding the gun. “I’m a mutate human disaster too, don’t worry about me crying wolf, or pig, ‘cause police. Get it?” 

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Peter says, stupidly, without thinking, because he never thinks and he rambles when he’s nervous and he really hopes he doesn’t say the wrong thing ‘cause this guy seems a little unhinged and not in a good way. 

“It should,” the red clad stranger says, all teasing gone from his tone, “you’re lucky you look so good in my clothes, baby. Keep ‘em, they’re yours.” 

When a fight doesn’t seem to be eminent Peter lets himself relax, minutely, but the jolt of adrenaline and then the crash of it is leaving him feeling worse than before. And the stranger is still staring at him like he can see right through him, like he knows exactly where Peter came from and what he’s doing and how he’s feeling. The gaze is heavy and entirely too familiar for someone Peter doesn’t even know. 

“Listen,” the stranger says, cocking his hip in a ridiculous pose, “you look like you’re one fart away from falling over. Can I give ya a lift? Where you heading? I’m gonna get some hot chocolate, would _love_ some company. I’ve been on the road for two months with just my thoughts and my hand and lemme tell ya, I’ve gone a little I am the egg man I am the walrus goo goo g’joob, ya feel?”

Strangely enough, Peter did feel. 

But Peter doesn’t know this guy and Miles is his priority. 

“I’m good,” he says and his dumb body must really like painting him for a hypocrite because his vision swims and his knees buckle and Miles kind of has to catch him. 

Which is a whole other problem because now this stranger has _seen Miles_. 

“Aw, you have a kid?” the stranger squeals, way too excited for the circumstance, “That’s so _cute_! Is momma still in the picture? Dada? Partner? Basically you got anyone who put a ring on that–whoa hey, are you okay?” 

Peter tries to answer but he’s throwing up instead. His vision is swimming, going in and out of black, and he’s shaking so horribly he can’t hold himself up any longer. Miles is supporting him easily, (thank you spider bites), but he looks just as freaked out as Peter feels. 

“I’m…I’m okay,” Peter tells him and then throws up blood. 

“Yikes, buddy, did you find the last standing Arby’s?” the stranger says and then gloved hands are grabbing Peter’s burnt arms and hauling him effortlessly from Miles’ hold. 

Peter lashes out immediately, elbow slamming against the guy’s nose, and Peter knows he broke it if the cracking is any indication but the man’s grip doesn’t loosen. 

“ _Fuck_! Ow, shit! I mean _fudge_ , sorry Junior. You broke my nose, man, I’m just trying to be your knight in shining armor!” 

“Let him go!” Miles shrieks, and Peter feels proud even as the world twists. 

“Well I’m trying,” the stranger hisses, struggling to get Peter situated in an awkward bridal carry, “follow me, Champ. I think he’s dehydrated. Or dying. Either or, take your pick.” 

“Don’t…f–freak him out,” Peter slurs, head feeling like it’s trapped between a meat compactor, “Miles, I’m not dying.” 

“I’m being realistic,” the stranger argues, and for all his brash words and profanity he’s holding Peter with a delicate sense of purpose, “what, you want me to lie to the kid?” 

“Yes,” Peter wheezes, and the guy is opening the back door of the car with one hand and dropping Peter, non-too softly, into the backseat. 

“Thanks for the gentle handling,” Peter hisses, world spinning at the sudden shift and he’s convinced he’s going to puke all over this guy’s seats. 

“Fragile, handle with care,” the stranger hums and winks. 

Miles’ face pops into view and he clambers into the backseat with Peter, lifting his head and plopping it back down on his thin thighs. 

“You two need to stop tossing me around,” Peter warns, “I’ll throw up all over you.” 

“You sure know how to show your gratitude,” the guy says, sliding into the drivers seat and peeling them down the road with more force and speed than necessary, “a kiss would’ve been nice. Or a dirty handkerchief. You gotta handkerchief, Princess?” 

Peter groans. 

“I know you’re _not_ calling me Princess,” he grits out, world still swimming in dark greys and blacks. 

“Tell me your name and I’ll stop calling you Princess, Princess,” the guy says and Peter knows, he just knows, that this guy is going to drive him batshit crazy. Why couldn’t a quiet driver pick them up?

“Peter,” he grits out, because why the hell not? 

“Pool, dead,” the guys says, holding out his hand like Peter has the mobility to reach out and shake it. 

“What?” Peter rasps. 

“Deadpool, call me ‘Pool. Or Ryan, really you can call me anything you want just not Hugh. Grossest fucking name I’ve ever heard, I’ll tell you what.” 

The panic of being held in a stranger’s car racing to nowhere hasn’t even sunk in yet; Peter’s so out of it. Miles seems to have calmed, but Peter can hear how nervous he is, his heart a staccato beat against his ribs. 

“Hey,” Peter whispers and he feels Miles shift his attention to him, “I’m gonna pass out. Don’t worry, it’s normal.” 

Deadpool laughs from the front seat and Peter checks out for a bit.

+

“Psst, little kid,” Wade stage whispers and Miles’ eyes meet Wade’s in the rearview mirror, “you hungry?”

Miles hesitates, then nods. 

“My name isn’t little kid,” he tells Wade seriously, “it’s Miles.” 

“That’s what I said.” 

Miles’ brow furrows in confusion. 

“No it wasn’t.” 

“Wow, you’re one of those really literal kids, ain’t ya?” Wade asks, not bothering to watch the road as he turns in his seat to meet the boy’s gaze head on. 

“No I’m not!” Miles argues. 

Wade fights a smile. He notices that Peter is still passed out, pale and pretty unresponsive. The kid–Miles–must be low-key freaking out. There really is only enough room in the Jeep for one person to be freaking out at a time, and Wade is always freaking out. 

“You like hot chocolate?” Wade asks.

+

The diner is where the rat told Wade it would be.

It’s long and old-fashioned, the heat from the kitchen steaming the windows and the neon signs illuminate the surrounding woods in a nostalgic haze. Tacky cut out hearts made out of construction paper were taped to the windows. Huh. Wade didn’t know it was Valentines Day. Or close to it? Who really paid attention to time anymore? 

Wade put the car in park and took this time to take a quick sweep of their surroundings. There are only three other trucks parked in the makeshift lot. A “no mutants” sign is plastered on the front door, and there’s a back door, probably from the kitchens, that can be used as an exit if need be. Wade opens the glove compartment and adds two extra guns to his person. He then twists so that he has Miles in his line of sight. 

“Keep your and your daddy’s hoods up, okay? They can’t see that horrible little mark on the back of your necks, capisce?” 

Miles nods, serious and nervous, he fidgets in the seat. 

“Hey,” Wade says, using his Serious voice, “look at me, M.” 

Miles does, and he looks so small and scared that Wade feels a rage, white hot and familiar, course through his veins. Not at the kid, never at the kids, but at the people who dared lay a single hand on him. His trauma is obvious. Wade should know, he sees it in himself everyday. 

“I ain’t gonna let anyone in here so much as look at ya, you got that? I’ll protect you, okay?” 

Miles, hesitant but slightly awed, nods again. Wade tries to soften his tone. 

“Cool. Now, lets get you two some real grub, huh?”

+

Peter wakes up disoriented, groggy, dizzy, and propped up against a large blacked out window.

He jolts, prepared for a fight, his brain putting him back in the experimentation facility in Midtown, before he takes in his surroundings. 

He’s in a diner, with Miles sitting next to him, wolfing down a plate of pancakes so tall Peter’s a little concerned he’s not in a cartoon. The whole table is covered with food, from eggs to waffles to sausage to burgers to fries– it looks like one of them ordered the entire menu. 

“Ow,” Peter says, closing his eyes because the diner’s fluorescents are way too bright. 

He opens his eyes again when he processes that Deadpool is sitting across from him. And trying to play footsie. Peter kicks him hard enough that it should have broken his shin. Instead the man just grins, and Peter knows he does because the guy’s mask is rolled up to his nose, white teeth flashing. His skin is severely burned, but after all Peter’s seen and gone through it barely registers. 

“Did you buy the restaurant?” Peter mutters, words like sand in his mouth. 

Deadpool leans forward. 

“One of everything, eat up,” he says, gesturing to the grand spread, “mini you is already on his fourth plate of pancakes.” 

Deadpool sounds proud. 

Peter peeks a glance at Miles, who has color in his cheeks for the first time since Peter’s known him. It makes his chest tighten with adoration. 

“Good,” Peter whispers, then closes his eyes again. 

“Whoop, no _no_ , eyes open, stud,” Deadpool barks, fingers snapping annoyingly in front of Peter’s face, “you gotta eat.” 

“You gotta fudge off,” Peter retorts without thinking. 

Thankfully, the man just laughs. 

“He’s right,” Miles pipes up and Peter feels oddly betrayed, “I feel much better.” 

Peter knows he’s pouting, but his head feels like it was split open with a rock and everything is too much, especially with his heightened senses. He jerks when he feels something warm and wet poke at his lips. His eyes snap open. 

Deadpool is trying to force feed him eggs. Peter hopes his glare belays his feelings on the matter but he obliges and reluctantly takes the bite. He can hardly taste it, but he knows Deadpool’s right about this. He reaches for his own fork and swats Deadpool’s away when the guy tries to feed him a whole pancake. 

“I got it,” Peter snaps, and Deadpool simply stuffs the entire pancake in his mouth instead. 

It’s kind of gross. 

“Have you tried hot chocolate?” Miles asks Peter, and pushes a mug into his hands, “Or pancakes? They’re really good, especially if you put a lot of syrup on it. Put a lot of syrup on it.”

Deadpool grins, chewing noisily. He reaches over the table and Miles gives him a secretly pleased high-five. Peter watches the interaction in subdued shock.

“Wait,” he says, slowly beginning to piece things together now that he has a little bit of nourishment in his system, “did you two carry me in here? While I was unconscious?” 

“We prefer deep coma-like sleep,” Deadpool corrects, taking the syrup from Miles and dumping the entire bottle over his own impressive stack of chocolate chip pancakes, “if the waitress asks you’re a narcoleptic. It doesn’t affect your daily life too horribly but you kick the wagon when you’re sleepy.” 

“I _wish_ I was still asleep,” Peter mutters, but Miles is staring at him with wide eyes so he takes a sip of hot chocolate to pacify the kid. 

“It’s good,” he tells Miles, who smiles so wide Peter can see his missing front tooth. 

“Kid’s never had hot chocolate,” Deadpool tells him conspiratorially, and while his tone is still jovial the ends of his words curl in a cold ice, “or pancakes. What the _fuck_ were they feeding you guys? Actually, scratch that, I know and I have a feeling it didn’t get any better from instant eggs and packaged dog meat.” 

Peter looks at Deadpool then, eyes narrowing. 

“You know?” he repeats, eyeing the knife by the side of his plate. 

Deadpool notices because he leans over and swiftly takes the knife out of Peter’s view. 

“Look,” Deadpool says nonchalantly, like they’re talking about the weather and not Mutant Internment Camps and whether or not Deadpool was in one, “right now, priority numero uno, is you eating all this goddamn–”

“Darn,” Miles corrects absently, too busy stuffing fries into his already full mouth. 

Deadpool looks at him, a bit taken aback, before he clears his throat and continues like Miles didn’t interrupt him, “ _Goddarn_ food. Happy?” 

Miles doesn’t answer. He takes Deadpool’s hot chocolate. And Deadpool lets him with a softening smile and Peter’s entirely perplexed by this strange man sitting in front of him. He didn’t peg Deadpool to be gentle with kids. He didn’t expect him to take an interest in them at all. A part of Peter, a big part, a very present part, is still convinced that Deadpool is going to drop them off at the nearest Auction Point and collect a nice sum for bringing in two mutants. 

Escaped mutants. 

Fleeing mutants. 

Peter’s lost all his appetite, but the lightheadedness is coming back and he knows, he _knows_ , that he’s been starving for far too long. If Deadpool does turn them in then Peter needs all the strength he can get. 

He starts to eat. 

Miles is a warm presence against his side, and Miles finally slows down with a loud burp and a slumping posture, eyelids drooping. Peter wipes the syrup and grease off his mouth with a napkin, and Miles must be drained because he doesn’t fight him. 

“How old is your kid?” Deadpool asks after some timid silence has stretched, during which Miles has fallen asleep against Peter’s shoulder. 

“Not my kid,” Peter corrects, still working on the rest of the food. 

Deadpool stopped eating a while ago, now nursing his third cup of coffee and watching Peter with a gaze that’s both heavy and light. 

“You’re just travel companions then?” Deadpool asks, sounding excited. 

“I got to know him in New York’s camp. He was in my wing. We have similar abilities,” Peter says around a mouthful of burger, and normally his manners are better than this but Deadpool chews with his mouth open and Peter’s tired so who the fuck cares, really? 

Deadpool falls silent, mouth twisting before he reaches up and pulls his mask down, hiding his face entirely. Peter’s worried he’s said something wrong, but he has to remind himself that just because Deadpool has been agreeable so far doesn’t mean Peter should go and get attached. And worrying about someone else’s feelings? 

Attached. 

Peter’s not doing relationships of any kind besides for what he has with Miles. No stranger is going to weasel their way into his heart, for friendship, for companionship, for partnership, anything. He’s too full with the weight of the world to worry about saying the wrong thing and upsetting Deadpool. Besides, the guy had asked. He should be prepared for an honest answer. 

“Where are you planning on going?” Peter asks beginning to slow his roll once the food has thinned impressively. 

 

Deadpool shrugs, resting his cheek in his hand.

“No fuckin’ clue, dude. This was where I had been headin’ when I found you dying–”

“I wasn’t _dying_ –”

“And now I’m here. Been there, done that, got my two mugs of hot cocoa, just like mama never made! Lemme level with ya,” Deadpool says, voice losing all hint of light camaraderie, and it makes Peter’s spider sense tingle, “there’s nothing left. I’ve been driving aimlessly for _months_. I’ve been out of the Weapon X Facility for years. You know what I’ve found? This damn diner and you. That’s it, buddy. There’s no one out there for us. Europe fucked off in 2009, and the rest of the world followed suit when China closed its borders for some fun eugenics 1940s bullshit. I dunno what you’re hoping to find, but it’s gone.” 

Peter wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting anything. He thought he’d die in an experimentation camp. Up until a few hours ago, that’s how he’d made his peace. Now? Now he doesn’t know what to do, what to aim for. A part of him had hoped that there would be a safe house somewhere. That maybe Canada hadn’t joined the whole war, but there’s only so long you can remain impartial when people start getting trigger-happy with nukes. 

“I heard there was a safe haven,” Peter whispers, hoping Miles is still deep in sleep and not privy to this depressing conversation, “off the West Coast. Somewhere for us.” 

Deadpool shrugs, leaning back heavily in the booth he’s sprawled across. 

“Maybe,” the guy relents, sounding wholly unbelieving, “I’m down to drive until I die. I don’t give a shit. If you wanna try to find this place that may or may not exist with absolutely no hard clues or leads I’m game. Got nothin’ to lose, anymore.” 

Peter regards him carefully before he reaches forward and holds out his hand. Deadpool tilts his head, watching Peter with an unbidden curiosity. 

“I don’t trust you,” Peter says, because honesty is all they have going for them at this point, in a world that’s made of ash and blood and hate, “but I’m not going to kill you. Or turn you in at an Auction Point.” 

Deadpool snorts, and takes his hand, completing the gesture. They shake. 

“That sucked,” Deadpool tells him, not releasing his hand, “I’ll take it.” 

“Travel companions,” Peter clarifies, a grin pulling at his lips, “we help each other. No funny business.” 

“That’s literally impossible for me,” Deadpool says, “have you even heard of me?” 

“No,” Peter admits.

“Damn, you just keep breaking my heart.” 

“I don’t do relationships,” Peter says, looking straight at Deadpool’s mask, “so this whole flirting thing? It better just be for shits and giggles ‘cause there’s no way we’re fucking. Or dating, or anything like that. Understand?” 

Deadpool hesitates and Peter squeezes his hand, a little too tight to be just uncomfortable. Deadpool yelps, but doesn’t pull away. 

“Yikes! Okay, okay got it. No fucking. But, let me throw this in here: what if on this disaster of a life changing road trip you almost die and I save your life and we kiss because we’re caught up in the moment? Does that count? Oh wait, are you straight? Shit dude, if you’re homophobic this ain’t gonna end pretty–” 

“I’m bisexual,” Peter interrupts, exasperated, “did you listen to me at all?” 

“Maybe,” Deadpool says, “bits and pieces. You talk a lot. I heard you say you’re bi.” 

“Wait, _I_ talk a lot?” 

“Yeah dude, it’s like, take a breath already.” 

“Jesus Christ–” 

A bill being thrown on the table interrupts them. Miles stirs and opens his eyes. They look up. An older woman is ogling the trio; hot pink lipstick a little smeared and mascara clumping around her eyes. It looks like she’s never washed her face. 

“We close in five,” she tells them, surveying the mess on the table with obvious irritation, “please leave.”

+

They pile back into the car with more energy then before.

Miles crawls into the backseat and Peter sits in the passenger side. A more parental part of him wants to be in the back with Miles, but in case Deadpool is taking them somewhere they don’t want to go Peter needs to be able to react quickly. He figures knocking the guy out against the steering wheel or dashboard will do the trick. 

“All right,” Deadpool sighs, staring the ignition and peeling them back onto the road, “where to, Princess?” 

“Thought we were dropping that,” Peter sighs, and settles back into the seat. 

He feels immensely better now that he’s had food and water and a forced sleep. His nerves are still fried, but his burns are healing minutely and Miles is safe and that’s all he can hope for. 

“ _You_ wanted to drop that,” Deadpool says, rolling down his window and letting the cool night air whip through the vehicle, “I think it has a nice ring to it.” 

Peter looks at him, at his mask, at his tight hoodie and sweats. Peter knows he has weapons on him; Deadpool isn’t really trying to hide that. There’s a canvas duffle bag in the backseat, and Miles has picked it up and is using it as a makeshift pillow. 

Deadpool watches him in the rearview. He whistles. 

“That bag is full of guns and grenades and a pretty fancy Kevlar suit,” he tells Peter, voice pitched low so that Miles can begin to drift, “kid picked it up like it was a pillow.” 

“He’s strong,” Peter says, eyes still trained warily on Deadpool, “probably stronger than I am.” 

Deadpool hums, thoughtful. 

“Your real name isn’t Deadpool, is it?” Peter asks, because the silence is awkward and he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. 

“What if it was?” Deadpool asks, a smile making his mask crinkle, “Nah. Real name’s Wade, Wade Wilson. Deadpool’s an old alias.” 

“I like Wade better,” Peter admits, resting his head against the back of his seat, “how would you feel if I called _you_ Princess?” 

“I’ll cum in my pants,” Wade says, not missing a beat, and Peter’s mouth twists in a bemused, if slightly grossed out, smile. 

“Great. I’ll never call you that.” 

“Aw, c’mon! Call me names, I _love_ that,” Wade whines and Peter thinks that maybe, _maybe_ , this guy isn’t so horrible.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> little road trip things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: lil bit of bigotry. thinking/talking of past torture/abuse

+

Road trips always seemed like they’d be romantic. 

When Peter was a teenager he’d fantasized about driving cross-country like he’s doing now, stopping at fun sightseeing tourist landmarks and getting ice cream and lazing in diners and beaches. 

Instead he gets miles and miles of desolate countryside, odd moments of the day where it rains ash, and Deadpool singing. 

Deadpool _singing_. 

The guy’s been through almost two ABBA albums from memory alone and while the first two songs were a nice break in the dreary quiet Peter is now tempted to throw him out the window and leave him in the dust. 

“Please,” Peter begs, rubbing his palms against his eyes, “stop. Singing.” 

“You’d rather have the radio?” Wade asks, his mask long discarded on the dash and his grin is twisted in a now familiar teasing tilt, “wanna listen to Pastor Tom preach about mutant abominations and homosexuality being a sin? That white power is–”

“I don’t want to hear anything,” Peter groans, “I just want quiet.” 

“That’s a lot to ask of me, Pete,” Wade admits, “I don’t do well with quiet. Got a lot of noise up here,” he taps his temple, “and I gotta drown ‘em out, ya feel?” 

A sinking dread settles in Peter’s stomach. He had a feeling the guy was a little unhinged, especially since he’s been on the road for months by himself after escaping years of torture in one of the most notorious camps, but voices? Peter can’t let his guard down. There’s no telling when this guy will snap. And Peter’s pretty certain that’s inevitable. 

“Fine,” Peter sighs, looking back at where Miles as stretched out in the backseat, messing with a dirty stress ball that Wade had found for him in the glove department an hour ago. 

“We could play a game?” Miles asks, hopeful, twisting so that he’s leaning between the two front seats. 

“Put your seatbelt on,” Peter says, and Miles grumbles but complies. 

They play I spy, the alphabet game, the animal game, 20 questions, and it kills about an hour before both Wade and Miles get bored and derail the whole damn thing. 

After four hours they find a grocery store, only four other cars in the vast lot, and Wade parks the Jeep off the road, wedged as close to the surrounding trees as possible. 

“Pass me some bills,” Wade instructs, twisting in his seat so he can grab a gun from the duffle by Miles’ feet and tucks it into the waistband of his cargo pants. 

Peter opens the glove compartment because it’s the only part of the car Peter can imagine being a safe place to hold money. He’s right. There’s one gun and the rest of the room is stuffed full with unmarked money.

Peter blanches. 

“The _fuck_?” he hisses, slamming the compartment closed before Wade can reach in and grab a wad, “How do you have this much money?” 

Wade looks genuinely confused. 

“Um. Stealing?” he says it like Peter is slow.

“Stealing?” Peter repeats, severely uncomfortable. 

Wade can tell because he glances at Miles before leaning forward so that he can whisper in Peter’s ear. 

“Look,” he says, but he’s still speaking loud enough for Miles to hear so he’s kind of defeating any purpose on why he’s this close to Peter, “there are no laws, baby boy. Not for us. We can’t work, we can’t own businesses, how the _fuck else_ are we gonna make it? You got a kid to take care of, who the fuck cares how we buy some goddamn bananas?” 

Peter wants to argue. He wants to start a debate on good and bad and breaking the law and being better but–

But he can feel the experimentation in his veins, he can still hear Miles’ screaming in his head, and as he looks out over the lot he sees all the people who stood by and did nothing to help him. And he looks over to the man who did. He sighs, deflating. 

“Fine,” Peter relents, opening the glove compartment and grabbing a wad of twenties for Wade to take, “but your mark. Don’t you have one? Isn’t it just as dangerous for you to go in?” 

Wade’s smile twists into a grimace and he turns his head so he’s baring the back of his neck to Peter. It’s such a submissive, trusting gesture that Peter’s kind of shocked until he focuses enough on Wade’s scarred skin to realize there’s no brand. 

Confused, Peter leans forward unconsciously. 

“How?” he asks, reaching to touch, the scientist in him enrapt, before he remembers common decency and pulls his hand back, “They didn’t brand you?” 

Miles is leaning forward to, and Wade must feel like he’s some kind of freak showcase so Peter gestures for Miles to scoot back a bit and give the guy some space. 

“Oh, they tried,” Wade admits and there’s a bitterness that makes his words sharp as he turns back to look Peter in the eye, “it just didn’t stick.” 

Peter squints, observing Wade’s skin with a zero minded focus, and Wade shifts uncomfortably, before pulling up his hood and shielding some of himself from view. Peter blinks, embarrassed. 

“Sorry,” he says, “it’s just. I’ve never seen abilities like yours. It’s fascinating.” 

Wade laughs but there’s no humor in the sound. 

“That’s a new one,” he says and before Peter can ask what he means Wade’s opening the door and stepping out of the car. 

“Don’t wander off,” he tells them, “also any requests? Some chocolate? Gatorade? Chips?” 

“Chocolate!” Miles says, excited. 

“Protein,” Peter corrects, “energy bars. Water bottles. No perishables.” 

Wade’s whistles, looking at Miles as he says, “Daddy’s a health nut.” 

“ _No_ , I’m keeping us alive. We can’t live off chocolate and Gatorade.” 

“ _I_ can,” Wade, says, snide, but he nods in acquiesce and heads in the direction of the grocery. 

Peter sighs and settles back into his seat, trying to will his headache away. He lulls himself into a false sense of calm until: 

“Why’d he call you Daddy?” Miles asks.

+

Wade’s used to people staring. It’s hard for them not to, he supposes, because humans are attracted to movement and color and anything that’s not familiar. 

Fortunately the grocery is sparse, and there aren’t many people. There isn’t a lot of food left either, and Wade grumbles as he clears most of the aisles, trying to grab one of everything and shove it in the plastic cart. 

He can feel one of the cashier’s eyes on him, and he should be grateful that a branding mark didn’t stay on his regenerating skin, but in this moment he wishes he did have one, just so these horrible fucking people could see a mutant taking something from them. 

Anger, hot and electric and as comforting as ice on a hot day, shoots through him. He’s struck with the sudden, intense desire to blow this place and everyone inside it to hell. But he kind of has people he needs to take care of now, and exploding their entire food supply probably isn’t the way to go about starting the day. 

Besides, Peter guy seems like a real “do the right thing” kinda dude, and Wade actually likes him. He talks big talk, is flirty, but he actually thinks this Peter guy is funny. He seems like a good person, and Wade doesn’t want to lose the one other mutant he’s found that can put up with him, wit for wit, joke for joke. 

So he doesn’t blow the grocery store up, but he _does_ fill the cart with a ridiculous amount of food, just so the cashier can busy herself instead of staring daggers at the back of Wade’s neck. 

“You ain’t one of them freaky mutates are ya?” she asks in a slight southern drawl and Wade counts to ten and focuses on breathing. 

“I’m a lot of things lady, including hungry and impatient so if you could just,” Wade clips out, making a shooing motion for her to get going on checking the bags so he can _leave_ and go back to the cute guy whose hopefully still in his car. 

She begins scanning the items in a bored, drawn out manner, like she has all the time in the world. Wade does _not_ have all the time in the world. He taps his foot, increasingly anxious, and angles himself so that he can have eyes on the busted red Jeep in the parking lot. 

The woman follows his gaze. 

“Ya know,” she says, smacking her gum, “my boyfriend had a Jeep just like that one.” 

“Cool,” Wade answers, seriously contemplating cleaning one of his guns while he waits. Maybe it’ll make her move faster. 

“Haven’t heard from him in a while,” the woman continues, oblivious to Wade’s growing agitation, “he jus’ disappeared one night. No word, ‘nothin’.” 

“Men are pigs,” Wade sighs, and he means it. 

The woman hands him his bags, nodding sagely. 

“Damn right,” she says.

Wade puts all the bags around one arm, and waits as she finishes the last load. She doesn’t hand them to him right away, taking time to look him up and down. Normally Wade would preen under any kind of positive affirmation, but he doesn’t like her, or the way her pink tongue curls around yellow teeth. 

“You’d be cute without all them scars,” she tells him, an almost appreciative gleam in her eyes, “you got a bangin’ bod. You wanna fuck?” 

He almost chokes on his tongue. 

This might be the only time he’s ever refused sex. Especially since he’s not paying anyone. And it’d be consensual. 

“No,” Wade laughs, and takes up the rest of his bags, “nope. No, no, I’m gay as all hell, like it up the ass, ya know.” 

He leaves her; slack jawed, at the register. He also steals some gum on the way out.

+

“Why’s that woman watching us?” Peter asks as Wade slides into the drivers seat, all the bags piled high in the trunk. 

Wade plays dumb. 

“Woman? What woman?” he tries and starts the ignition. 

“The one on her phone by the entrance of the grocery store,” Peter explains, expression incredulous as he regards Wade and his chipper demeanor, “what did you do?” 

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything, sweetcheeks! I even got you some protein bars!” Wade exclaims, driving way over the speed limit to peel back out onto the main road. 

Miles is rummaging through the bags in the backseat, pulling out all the chocolate and Redbull and popcorn– 

“Hell, Wade, did you buy the whole store?” Peter asks, befuddled as he takes note of how much food they actually have. 

“I like you saying “hell” and my name in the same sentence,” Wade hums, drumming his hands on the steering wheel, “try it again only this time add a breathy moan at the end.” 

“There’s a nine year old less than a foot behind you,” Peter deadpans, and Wade laughs, rolling down the windows and causing the bags to rustle loudly in the wind. 

“Too much,” Miles exclaims, “roll up the windows!” 

Wade does, confused. 

“Too much?” he repeats, eyeing Peter who gestures to his ears. 

“We have heightened senses,” he says, “that was too loud.” 

“Huh,” Wade says, and grabs Peter a protein bar.

+

Peter needs to get out of this goddamn car. 

His legs feel cramped, his head hurts, and he’s bored out of his mind. He wants to run, he wants to spar, he wants to do _something_ to get the blood pumping and to remind himself that he’s not trapped anymore. He’s sure Miles feels similarly. 

“We have to pull over,” Peter tells Wade after the tenth hour, during which Peter’s convinced Wade has needed a break as well, “I’m losing my mind.” 

“Hopefully not,” Wade says, yawning obnoxiously, “but no dice, dude.” 

“What do you mean no dice? I need to stretch my legs,” Peter argues. 

“I need to pee,” Miles pipes up. 

“Pull over,” Peter sighs, like Wade’s being ridiculous, and he kind of is, “there’s literally no one around.” 

Wade’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, just a bit, but he doesn’t argue. Instead he goes a little quiet, and pulls over to the side of the dirt road. Miles is unbuckling and out the door in an instant, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste. 

“Don’t go too far, Miles!” Peter calls, but he’s just as eager to get out of the car as the nine-year old is. 

“I’m not gonna let you watch me pee!” Miles calls behind him and disappears behind a tree. 

“…That’s not what I meant,” Peter says, and looks back at Wade for some form of validation. 

Wade thinks it’s kinda cute. 

“I’m with shorty,” he shrugs, getting out of the car and sitting on the hood, “I wouldn’t want some weird white dude watching me take a piss.” 

Peter crosses his arms, trying to look annoyed but it’s obvious the guy’s happy to be near any kind of nature, especially where grass is still growing. He bends down and touches his palms to the earth like it’s _nothing_ and Wade can’t help but stare. Of course he’s gonna notice if the guy he’s with is attractive. It’d be impossible not to notice. Especially when said guy has a nice five o’ clock shadow that makes his sharp jaw look sharper. 

“I can feel you watching me,” Peter says, not standing upright but somehow bending himself even more in half, “stop it.” 

“There’s literally nothing else to look at,” Wade argues, but he does turn his gaze off down the long stretch of dirt road, “you’re the best view. My other options are dried mud or pollution.” 

Peter doesn’t answer, but Wade can hear when he straightens and makes his way to the line of trees. He deems it okay to look now. 

“I hear water,” Peter says, the sun catching the tips of his hair and nose and kissing it in gold, “maybe there’s a creek?” 

“No water around here is gonna be clean,” Wade points out, but if he strains he can definitely hear running water. 

Peter feels excited about the prospect of dipping his toes in a stream, but that’s a gamble he doesn’t want to make with his healing factor. He tries not to show his disappointment, and instead begins to pace, walking around and letting the sun soak into his skin. 

“Hey,” Wade calls and Peter stops and turns to face where the other man is sitting, “how old are you?” 

“Twenty-five,” Peter answers, reaching down and feeling the grass between his fingers, “my birthday’s in August.” 

“No shit,” Wade grins, canines sharp, “bro you’re a _Leo_?” 

“A what?” 

“Lion. _Leo_. It’s astrology shit. You telling me you don’t know about the stars and planets and stuff?” 

Peter wrinkles his nose. 

“Uh, no? I mean, I know about planets and stuff but I don’t believe in–”

“I’m an Aquarius,” Wade says, proud, and Peter can’t help the genuine smile tugging at his lips, “which is air. We balance each other out, baby!” 

“Or drive each other crazy,” Peter rebuts, “air feeds fire.” 

“It sure does,” Wade winks. “When’s the kid’s birthday?” 

Peter slumps a bit, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Not sure,” he admits, so soft he’s not sure if Wade hears. 

“Yo, Millie!” Wade calls as Miles wanders back around the tree into their view, “when were you born?” 

Miles’ eyes dart to Peter, then Wade, and he looks lost as he shrugs. Peter’s heart breaks, just like that. 

“I…I dunno,” Miles admits, meek. 

Even from where Peter is standing he can see how Wade’s expression darkens, how tension freezes every limb in his body. 

“That’s okay,” Peter tries to soothe, walking back over and fixing the hood of Miles’ (Wade’s) jacket, “we can just choose. What’s your favorite month?” 

“Nope! We have to guess his zodiac sign and that’ll be his birthday,” Wade argues, “how emotional is he, on a scale from 10-11?” 

“You’re not giving us a lot of wiggle room,” Peter grumbles and turns his attention back to Miles, “ _you_ can pick. Ignore him.” 

“Wow, rude, I’m literally right here,” Wade whines and when Miles smiles Peter feels some of his reserves about Wade weaken, just a little. 

Miles is obviously overwhelmed, looking between both Peter and Wade, so Peter decides to throw the kid a bone. 

“Wade, what month is it?” Peter asks. 

Wade checks an imaginary month. Like it will tell him. 

“My sources say February but who the fuck knows? Past V-Day fo’ sho’, just based on that shitty diner’s old decorations. Looks like they were made years ago.” 

Peter’s a little impressed. He didn’t think Wade would be observant. 

“Okay,” he says slowly, dragging it out, “so end of February. Lets say your birthday is in two days. We’ll have a party!” 

“Ooh!” Wade exclaims, hopping off the hood of the Jeep and denting it under his weight, “I love parties! We can have a theme! How’s “on the run” feel? What’s your favorite cake flavor? You don’t have to say chocolate just ‘cause–”

“All right,” Peter cuts him off with a sharp look, “we’ll…find a cake? And some balloons? A candle too, we need candles.”

“Okay, hold on, I’ll write it down,” Wade says and pretends to lick the nib of a pen. 

Miles is practically beaming, he’s so excited, and Peter kind of wants to tuck the kid close and keep him safe forever. It won’t be a grand party, unfortunately, and they might not be able to find a cake or streamers or anything like that, but it’ll be a good distraction for him and Wade to have something to plan. If Miles keeps smiling like he is right now it’s already worth it.

+

“I can drive,” Peter tells Wade, the dark lulling the car into a lazy crawl, nothing but charred ground and dead forests sprawling out in front of them. 

“Sure,” Wade agrees, shoulders slumping, “I’m getting so goddamn bored I think I’m gonna claw my eyes out.” 

“Well pull over then,” Peter directs and Wade does before unbuckling and just _falling out of the car_.

“Wow, drama,” Peter teases as he jumps over the console and into the drivers seat. 

Wade looks up at him from the ground, a dumb smile on his face, his body twisted hilariously. He’s a mess. 

“You look good like this,” Peter tells him.

+

It’s easy to talk to Wade. Simple. 

He can keep up with Peter’s tumbles of dialogue without missing a beat. Peter used to drive his captives crazy for how much he rambled, but Wade doesn’t seem to mind. Wade _matches_ him. 

Maybe this astrology bullshit is worth looking into.

+

They find a motel that’s attached to a dingy strip mall, and a sign in the parking lot makes it very clear on where these properties stand on mutants. 

“Is this safe?” Miles asks, peering out the window, hands pressed to the glass as they drive through. 

It isn’t crowded, but there’s enough people to make Peter’s spider sense tingle unnervingly at the base of his skull. 

“Maybe we sleep in the car again?” Peter muses, already on edge and they haven’t even parked yet. 

“If it makes you guys feel better I’ll gladly kill anyone in this dump if they so much as look at you funny,” Wade pitches in, parking the Jeep away from the main lot and around back of the motel, out of the view from the not so far highway and entrances to the small restaurants. 

“No killing,” Peter sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes, “we need to shower. And feel like actual humans again.” 

Wade hums, but doesn’t reply. 

“So we’re sleeping in beds?” Miles asks, sounding hopefully excited, and it’s so a taken for granted luxury, having a mattress to hold them instead of the cloth car seats. Or lab cots. 

When was the last time Peter slept in a real bed? When was the last time he was able to take a shower that didn’t involve a bunch of other people or a hose? He feels like he’s buzzing out of his skin, he’s so excited, and he makes the decision then and there: Miles is going to understand what it means to feel normal. 

To have a bed and a shower and a safe space to stay and not have to worry about what will happen when he wakes up. 

Peter’s unbuckling his seat belt and taking money from the glove compartment before he can think about it. 

“Whoa _whoa_ , wait, what’re you doing, Pete?” Wade grabs his wrist, not hard, but enough to get Peter’s attention. It still makes Peter’s spider sense flare in alarm. 

“Getting us a room?” 

“Isn’t it safer for me to do that?” 

“I’m not going to keep waiting in the car,” Peter snaps, “I hate this car. I wanna feel normal for one goddamn second and if that means getting us a room–”

“You think they won’t check you?” Wade interrupts, voice hard, “You think they’re gonna let you walk in with your hood up and not check to see if you’re branded? Why do you think I went into the grocery store? My power is regeneration, baby, nothin’ sticks on me. And if this place has a policy I’ll pass. We’ll just sneak ya’ll in.” 

Peter wants to argue. He really wants to argue. He’s sick of being treated like a contagion. He wants autonomy. But Wade, unfortunately, is right. Going in with his hood up will be suspicious. Not wanting to show his neck will raise too many red flags. Some establishments don’t care, but Peter shouldn’t risk it because he’s acting on impulse. 

He sighs, and slumps back in his seat. 

“Here,” he says, not meeting Wade’s eyes as he hands him the money, “see if they have a laundry room.” 

Wade hesitates, and then urges Peter to meet his gaze. Peter isn’t expecting the serious look on Wade’s face. 

“I know this fucking sucks,” he says, and Peter feels oddly exposed, “and if I could change it I woul–actually, I can. Want me to knock the guy out? Shut down the strip mall? Take it over Walking Dead sty–”

Peter covers Wade’s mouth with his hand. He’s tempted to shoot a web, but that’d be a whole other explanation he doesn’t have the energy for. 

“No,” he laughs, touched at Wade’s earnest expression. A part of Peter thinks Wade is serious. “You were right. You get our room. We’ll wait here.” 

Wade nods a little stunned. 

Then his eyes dart down to Peter’s hand and Peter removes it, contrite. 

“Sorry,” he fumbles. 

Miles watches them curiously from the back seat.

+

Peter can’t explain the feeling of stepping into the motel room. 

A part of him doesn’t believe it’s real. Another part thinks he’s hallucinating. But then Miles is jumping onto one of the two beds with his shoes still on and is messing with the TV remote, and Wade flops down next to him to control the channels, and Peter can’t hallucinate feeling this content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey huge thanks to those who've read and commented! love ya'll.

**Author's Note:**

> will i ever finish something again? who knows. honestly comments and support mean the world to me. really helps me stay on track.


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